


The horrors of my mind fade in the safety of your arms

by MatildaSwan



Category: The Worst Witch (TV 2017)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Can be read as romantic ship or platonic mentor/mentee, Canon Compliant, Episode tag: Selection Day, F/F, Gentle Soothing Sleepytimes, Nightmares, Sleeping Potions, Snails, Soggy Tear-Stained Hugs, but Ada knows what's what and is there to catch Hecate when she needs it, either way Hecate loves Ada more than pretty much anything else in the whole world, she also has a lot of anxiety+other brain weasels and should seek professional care and treatment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-30
Updated: 2017-10-30
Packaged: 2019-01-26 16:27:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12561448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MatildaSwan/pseuds/MatildaSwan
Summary: Selection Day itself might be over, but that doesn't mean the events of that afternoon are in the past. Indeed, the sight of Ada shrinking into a snail remains fresh in Hecate's mind, wreaking havoc with her thoughts and, eventually, her dreams.





	The horrors of my mind fade in the safety of your arms

**Author's Note:**

> CW: mentions of anxiety+racing thoughts, insomnia, nightmares and some unsettling snail-squishing related imagery. Hecate is a small anxious bean, bless her cotton socks, and has no idea how to deal with emotions.
> 
> Also, shout out to Arwen for being a beta-ing babe!

Six week is more than adequate to finish preparations for the coming year, as far as Miss Hardbroom is concerned. 

Once the first formers have been selected and allocated living quarters, it is simply a matter of the staff pulling themselves up to their headmistress’s standard—intent on nurturing young witches to grow into their potential and become the best of their kind—and falling shy of their deputy’s own—still convinced rigidity and strictness are essential to reach that final drop of potential so many of their girls leave untouched upon graduation. 

Six weeks is more than enough time for Miss Bat to revise her history lessons—regressing closer and closer to the basics every year, Hecate notes with a sniff—for Miss Gullet to scour the supply cupboards and badger Hecate about restocking—never mind she ought to have noticed the shortages in the final weeks of the previous year— for Miss Drill to replenish their broomstores—always more accidents and splintered wood to replace than they’d hoped for—Miss Hardbroom to outline her course work to Miss Cackle, be informed to substantially lighten the load, and come back with a revision, softened and structured enough to satisfy both of the school’s heads. 

(She knows her headmistress deliberately asks for more than Hecate can easily give: a wordless agreement where Ada pushes past what’s required and Hecate relents enough for them to balance, to move through their differences to meet somewhere in the middle. It’s why they work together as well as they do, how they’ve done so for as long the have, a cohesive whole comprised of parts from worlds apart.) 

Normally, Hecate would be hard at work and by her headmistress’s side: her right hand helping to tie each piece together in a harmonious whole for the year ahead. But this year is not normal; this year is different. 

This year is wrong. 

How could it ever be right: when Selection Day saw a disgruntled, vindictive, rage-filled facsimile of their school’s Head turn her twin into a snail, the transformation locked to her magical essence and irreversible by any hand other than her own, and forced Hecate herself to hold the assault lawful. 

She’d never questioned the code before, always relished the responsibilities it endowed and upheld her duties with honour, but wished she could, when she watched her colleague, her _friend_ — _her_ Ada!—shrink and morph into a Goddess damn gastropod and slime up the tiles of dining hall floor, framed by a pair of cat-whiskered flats. 

Hecate is thankful they stayed static, that Agatha hadn’t enchanted them to hover over a pair of newly sprouted eyes and a body too slow to move away from danger. She thinks a direct threat to Ada’s paper thin shell might have broken Hecate, bent her enough to follow Agatha’s example and misuse magic to bend another’s will to her own, to break every vow Hecate had spent her life not only abiding, but pressing their importance onto others. She’s glad she never found out—not now; hopefully not ever—because Ada is fine, thanks to Mildred Hubble. 

She’s glad the girl caught hold of Hecate’s slight of hand as quickly as she did, and found a way around the laws that bound Hecate and left her helpless. (Granted, she’s still wary of their newest student, already certain she’ll bring nothing but chaos to the school, remains convinced admitting girls from non magical background is a recipe for disaster. But she can’t fault Ada’s argument that it’s safer to train a witch to understand her power than to let her roam free and ignorant. So Hecate can’t help the touch of gratitude, for how Mildred earnt a place in their school, which speckles her prays that the girl doesn’t disgrace their name entirely before she inevitably fails enough for Ada to finally listen to reason. This simply isn’t the place for her.)

But despite that fact that Ada is fine—of course she is—and remains convinced of the good in the year ahead of them, Hecate can’t help worrying: _what if she isn’t?_ What if Agatha cast a time lapse regression to mimic the initial transformation, what if Ada might yet shrink and disappear all over again, what if this isn’t over. What if the worst is yet to come? 

Try as she might to reason there’s not point in worry on what might have been, she can’t stop it from curling tight in the pit of her stomach. It keeps her tied in knots as the staff put Selection Day behind them and move on and she struggles to work through her ever growing list of responsibilities. 

She finds herself making excuses for Ada’s time, her attention, in those first few days. Finds reasons to be close and at hand during the day; finds reasons to linger just a little later after their evening tea for all she cannot bear to ask for more. Finds herself certain Ada can see through the facade, to the why of what she’s doing, for all she says nothing despite the questions burning in her eyes whenever Hecate bids her a hurried goodnight.

She’s grateful for Ada’s silence, unsure how to explain why she’s so worried, why she’s so scared, when Ada is perfectly fine and the picture of health, though a little heavier now with the weight of her sister’s escapades on her shoulders, and only a little put out about the clearing required to accommodate a student more than they’d intended on taking. 

Just as she’s grateful for Ada’s request for help with the Junk Room, for the excuse to stay near a whole day and long past nightfall. The closeness is enough to stop the creeping doubt from taking hold, and Hecate feels the need to be near fade once a week has past.

But as the next week begins, the need to see remains: she glances at Ada through lowered lashes as they walk the grounds, the halls, the classrooms; catches herself staring at meal times, over evening tea, during staff meetings. 

The frequency is embarrassing and she hates herself for it—this need for yet more reassurance that Ada is fine, that she is unharmed, that Hecate hadn’t irreparably failed in her duty—hates herself all the more when the worry keeping her up at night, keeping her away every night, weighs her down so much she starts flagging. 

She feels herself falter, fall behind; fears she’ll fail Ada yet again, when she sees how far behind her own schedule she’s fallen with barely a month left till term. She refuses to fail again. 

She spends the afternoon in the potions lab—decluttering, she’d say if anyone asks; brewing, they know if they cared to look—a sleeping draught she’s tried and tested and knows truly works. 

She drinks it once she’s retired from evening tea, feels it pull at her eyes before her head hits the pillow. She lies in her warm, soft bed with her familiar curled by her feet and lets it lull her towards slumber. But while the potion quietens the worrying, racing thoughts of her waking mind enough to sleep, it does not stop them clawing at her subconscious. 

She should have thought to add a dash of lucidity to the mix; she never did learn to control her dreams. 

Tonight, they are of her own feet, encased by flat, hard soles, moving without her accord; cheshire grins and black fur shoes shining red and full, thick laugher; gleaming, delighted eyes watching them dance around a tiny mollusc: slime covered, exposed body with a fragile shell so easily shattered and no legs on to run with.  

She hears the crunch, feels the break. Shards of exoskeleton cut through the soles of her shoes and soft flesh squashes under foot. Slime oozes warm and thick over her bare skin. 

Hecate wakes up with a strangled scream, her heart racing and eyes burning, tangled in blankets and dripping in sweat. She rips off the covers with depraved laughter ringing loud in her ears. 

She can’t breath past the waves of nausea as her feet touch the ground and her fingertips click as she pulls herself standing; she stares at the grain patterned on Ada’s bedroom door for a few moments before realisation dawns.

She forces herself to breathe, to swallow down the lump in her throat, to put her racing heart back in her chest. She should go. She feels a shard cut at the pads of her feet and makes a fist. She doesn’t feel the rap against her knuckles till the knock echoes loud in the hallway. 

There’s no answer, of course, why would there be? It’s gone the middle of the night and even the moon is tiring of her time in tonight’s sky, every person in the castle sensible enough to be sound asleep save Hecate herself, more the fool. 

_Stupid woman, it was just a dream,_ she scolds herself. _Ada is fine, she’s always fine._ She wills herself to stop shaking. _Go back to your room, it was just a dream._ But she can’t shake the panic. 

She needs to see Ada—waves her fingers in front of her face, waves her hand over her eyes—needs to know she’s alright.

Of course she is, there she is—safe in her bed, soft with sleep and sweet dreams—for Hecate to see despite the door separating them. She breathes a sigh of relief: her heart finally calming, her jaw unclenching, the knot in her stomach unraveling. 

_She’s alright._

She watches a moment longer, to reassure herself just that little bit more, and Ada starts to shift: her nose twitching, her breathing hitching in a half-snore, and her eyelids fluttering open. She cracks open an eye to look directly into the spell and Hecate feels another wave of panic wash over her. 

_Stupid!_ She casts off to end and stumbles away from the door, away from Ada and a conversation for which she still isn’t ready. _It was just a dream._

She’s still willing her legs to carry her up the hall, for her arms to move in tandem and transfer to the safety of her room and the promise of her familiar—calming purr and comforting presence—when Ada’s door opens. 

Soft light streams out into the hall. Hecate looks past the flicker of a candle hovering to greet her and sees a softly smiling Ada sitting on the edge of her bed. 

‘Hecate,” she starts, standing up and padding closer. ‘It’s quite late, whatever’s the matter?’

There’s no anger in her voice, no irritation, just concern and care in her sleep-rough husk; Hecate almost faints with relief. If she can think of a problem, invent a reason for being here—an explosion in the potion’s labs, escaped frogs, _anything—_ to explain why she’s being a bother in middle of the night, maybe she can get through the next few minutes without dying of shame. Her mind scrambles for an excuse. 

‘I had a dream.’

It takes her a few moments to realise who spoke; she hadn’t felt her own mouth open. 

Ada stops short in the doorway, candle hovering above her shoulder, and tilts her head to the side with a frown. The admission fills the air, turns it thick and dim despite the wick burning bright as ever, and Hecate starts praying for a supply cupboard to actually explode. 

‘I gather not a very nice one?’ 

Hecate opens her mouth and feels tears spring, unbidden, to her eyes. She looks away and stares at the castle floor, begs the stones crack open and let her fall through, to no avail. She shakes her head just a fraction.

‘Come on.’ Ada beckons her forward, curling a hand around Hecate’s elbow and pulling her through the doorway. ‘Come in and tell me what’s wrong.’

Hecate flinches, tenses, still unsure. Ada stops tugging, squeezes a touch firmer before letting go. Ghost flesh ripples where her fingers last brushed and Hecate feels her chest tighten; feels the severed contact in her bones and wonders if she could beg its return. 

She’s saved from asking with the offer of tea and gladly accepts.

‘The warmth will do you some good,’ Ada mumbles as they rematerialise in her candle bright study. 

Ada sits in front of her coffee table holding a pot and two cups—gold glint of the pattern shining delicate in the candle light—a bag of loose leaf, a tiny pitcher of milk, a bowl of sugar cubes, and plate full of the only biscuits Hecate had ever asked the kitchen to stock (It had been months, _years,_ ago, when she’s first taken to them, but food rarely held her attention for long and she lost interest soon enough). 

She wonders why Ada keeps them at hand as she takes a seat, watching Ada heatthe stone cold water of the pot and counting as she spoons tea from bag to pot. She worries her bottom lip as Ada replaces the lid, wondering why magicking a whole renders the product worthless, but to magick each part leaves it’s value intact. She considers the answer but won’t break the silence.

Ada pours with a tiny smiles; Hecate picks up her saucer with a nod and nothing more. 

She can taste the hint of magic infused in the tang of her first sip, and feels her jaw unclench after a few mouthfuls. Words form on her tongue, right at the tip with the warmth of the tea, gathering so fast she wonders if Ada’s charmed her. She rests the saucer on her knees and shakes her head at her own folly: she knows she never would. 

‘It was Agatha,’ Hecate starts, eyes flicking up from the edge of the table to Ada to the light of the candle nearby. ‘She won the duel and turned you into a snail, _again_ , only…’ she trail off, biting her lip. Looks up to focus on the women in front of her. ‘This time you didn’t turn back.’ 

Ada hums, nods, but does not speak. She slides her tea onto the table and waits till she’s sure Hecate has nothing else to add.

**‘** But I did,’ she counters. ‘Largely thanks to you.’ 

Hecate sniffs, purses her lips. She knows she helped, but not enough for Ada’s gratitude.

‘I know it’s been bothering you.’ Hecate frowns, averts her gaze, but can’t help glancing back as Ada says, ‘But I’m fine, truly.’ Ada reaches forward to pick up her tea, helps herself to a biscuit. ‘Besides,’ she adds, sitting back comfortably in her chair. ‘If I had spent the rest of my days a snail, I know I’d have been well cared for.’

Hecate sips at her tea to stop her worry slipping out. She’s right, Hecate _would_ have cared for her, for however long she’d lived in that form, knowing there wasn’t a single way she would have reversed that spell without Agatha, that she’d have bound herself to wrong Miss Cackle for however long it took to get her help, knowing that day would likely never come. 

The thought of Ada living out her days as a mollusc is hard enough to bear, but the thought of her not living them at all is too much. 

‘I stepped on you,’ Hecate blurts out, dropping her saucer onto the table. ‘She enchanted your shoes and made them dance—’ Her hands make fists in her lap. ‘—Made _me_ dance.’ Her nails gouge deep into her palms. ‘I couldn’t stop and you couldn’t move and I stepped on you _,_ ’ Hecate whispers, voice breaking and wet, and blinks at Ada. ‘I _squashed_ you.’

She can see Ada move sit next to her through watering eyes but the hand on her shoulder is still a surprise. She jumps, breath hitching, and bites her lip. 

‘No, you didn’t,’ Ada says kindly, softly. ‘You didn’t hurt me, and neither did Agatha. I’m fine, Hecate, I promise. It really was just a dream, and I’m fine.’

Ada squeezes Hecate’s shoulder. She feels real and present and _safe_ sat beside her and Hecate struggles to clamp down her emotions—they’ve humiliated her enough for one night—but the wave of relief is too strong, finally letting herself believe that Ada truly is fine, and she can’t help but sob as a palm rubs her back. 

It’s all she can do to stop herself turning and burying her face in the crook of Ada’s neck, and she can’t even mange that once she feels Ada’s arms pull her closer and warm breath on her scalp as Ada whispers assurance and praise and promises she is safe and so is Hecate and they are both fine. 

She doesn’t know how long she cries, clinging so tight her body shakes—so tired and tightly wound and wrung out and finally, _finally_ reassured—and holds on till her sobs fade to sniffles. Only when her breathing has evened out, save the occasional hiccup, does she finally pull away with a heavy sigh.

She blinks rapid and long as Ada wipes at her sticky cheeks. Hecate avoids meeting her eyes because she knows her own are red-rimmed and bloodshot behind drooping lids.

‘What have you taken tonight?’ Ada asks gently, and Hecate shifts away, sits up ramrod straight, denial sitting at the tip of her tongue—she can’t bear admitting to any more weakness, not tonight—till Ada hazards a correct guess. She won’t lie, not to Ada, and nods. 

‘Then you’ll need to sleep,’ Ada adds, assesses, without a hint of judgement, and Hecate feels her chin quiver slightly.

She bites her lips and nods again, as the last traces of tea-warmed potion ebb through her blood. She tries to stand, limbs heavy and barely able to keep her eyes open, and wobbles so much she has to sit back down.

‘Stay,’ Ada insists, the hand that reached out to try and catch her a moment ago now keeping her sat. ‘You’ll likely end up with your arms stuck in a wall if you transfer, you’re that tired.’

Hecate has to jerk herself awake to make out the end of Ada’s sentence and thinks she might be right; tries to brush off Ada’s concern anyway, but can’t seem to get her legs to stand. 

She grunts as the lounge shifts underneath her to become a bed. She tries to shake off Ada’s help as she shifts towards the middle of the mattress; sees Ada’s small, kind smile in the dimming candle light and feels all the fight leave her. She lets herself be shuffled under soft blankets but insists on pulling them up to her own chin with barely open eyes. 

‘Goodnight, Hecate,’ she hears Ada say, as her cheek sinks into the pillow. ‘Sleep well.’

‘Night, Ada,’ she replies, her words slurred thick with sleep. ‘Thank you, for everything.’ 

She can still feel Ada smiling at her as she finally falls asleep; her last thought wondering why the bed feels familiar and comforting when it is not her own. 

(It’s not till she wakes, hours later—though it might have been days, given how rested she feels—in the curtain-drawn dim of Miss Cackle’s office, with the woman herself dozing in an armchair by the end of the makeshift bed and Morgana curled up and purring peacefully in her lap, that she realises the soft wool cocooned around her is just the same as Ada’s favourite cardigan: the fuzzy pink one she wears everyday. Except, it would seem, for today, given the thick black shawl—which Hecate would swear she left thrown over the back of her own reading chair last night—now pulled tight around Ada’s bare shoulders.) 


End file.
